by Paul Doiron
“And yet you continue to write.”
“I write books.”
“Is there a difference?”
“I pretend there is.”
Suddenly a deer appeared in my headlights. I braked, but much too late. I heard a horrific thump as the animal collided with the front grill, bounced off the hood, smashed the windshield, and was thrown into the weeds at the side of the road.
What I recall next was sitting there, stopped, the transmission somehow in park, with all the air gone from my lungs. My knuckles, where they gripped the steering wheel, were as white as bleached bones. Neither of us had been wearing seat belts since old Blackington had long ago sawed them off.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“Jesus!” Ariel was frantically feeling her body, thighs, breasts, face, as if she might be missing parts. “Jesus Christ!”
“Let me see.”
She must have bumped her forehead against the dash because she had a red mark there that seemed destined to become a pretty good bruise. But neither of us was bleeding. As it was designed to do, the windshield had spiderwebbed but held together instead of turning into a thousand airborne shards.
Ariel gasped. “Was that a person?”
“It was a deer.” I glanced in the passenger mirror and saw a gray-brown shape in the crushed goldenrod.
“I didn’t even see it! Is it dead?”
“Stay here for a minute.”
I got out of the truck and staggered through the swirling exhaust fumes. My muscles had tensed at the moment of impact, and my joints had locked up.
Steam rose from the buck’s mouth. His tongue was sticking out. One of his antlers had snapped off. His eyes were big black globes with long, elegantly curled lashes. I saw neither pupil nor iris. But there was still life in them—and pain.
The deer tried to rise, but his legs were limp and gory where the broken radius and tibia had pierced the skin. Blood glistened on the exposed white femur. The urinous smell of his tarsal glands tasted sour in my mouth.
In one smooth motion I pulled my pistol from its holster and fired a .357 round through his big, broken heart.
The gunshot echoed. The ejected shell casing flashed across my field of vision. The bitter smell of burnt powder filled my sinuses.
I glanced at the pickup and saw that Ariel had her door ajar. She’d been sitting with her legs swinging loose. She’d seen me euthanize the buck. Except for the rosy contusion on her forehead, she had gone totally pale.
I reholstered my SIG. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She didn’t speak, but tears began to fill her eyes. She tried blinking them back, but to no avail. Soon she began crying, quietly at first, but eventually in loud sobs that shook her from head to foot.
Should I try to console her? Emotionally stunted man that I was, I had no idea what to do.
I bent over and grabbed the dead deer by his unbroken foreleg and his unbroken rear leg. Starving as he had been, he didn’t weigh much for a mature buck at the start of the rut. Less than a hundred pounds, I guessed.
I swung the deer into the bed of the pickup, where he landed with a ringing thud. His head bounced off Ariel’s duffel, then settled back on it as if it were a coffin pillow. I should have put on my gloves first because blood and deer hair were stuck to my palms now. I squatted in the wet weeds to wipe them clean, but the musky odor of the deer remained.
Now that the shock was wearing off, I found myself overwhelmed by anger. The stupid, stubborn residents of Maquoit had resisted every effort my agency had made to help them with their deer overpopulation problem. The islanders didn’t want the state telling them what to do, no matter if it was the right thing. Especially if it was the right thing. They loved their deer too much, they’d said.
This was what came of that love. This unnecessary suffering, this painful death, this lifeless bag of bones.
I rose with some difficulty and made a close examination of the damaged truck. Clumps of hollow hair were caught in the broken plastic of the grill. The right side of the hood had a broad deer-shaped dent from the fender to the windshield. Fortunately, the shattered glass was all on Ariel’s side. I should be able to see well enough to drive, provided the truck was still drivable.
I got back behind the wheel. Ariel had pulled herself inside and closed the door, probably because she hadn’t wanted me to see her bawling. I put the Datsun into first gear and we began to creep forward. I pressed the gas pedal and shifted into second. The transmission seemed unaffected by the incident—unlike the two of us.
She was using the hem of her shirt to wipe the tears sliding down her cheeks. Her nose had gone pink around the nostrils and in the divot above her mouth.
“How are you doing, Ariel?”
“How does it look like I’m doing, Mike.”
I found a wad of paper napkins stuffed beside the seat and handed them to her. “I was driving too fast. I knew there were deer along this stretch. I should’ve been more careful. I’m sorry for putting you through that.”
But Ariel wasn’t listening to me, or she had no interest in my self-recriminations. “I can’t even cry for my baby sister, but we hit a stupid deer and look what happens to me. I am such a horrible person. I’m the heartless monster Miranda always said I was.”
“You’re not heartless.”
“How can you say that? You don’t know the first thing about me.”
I fell silent.
She was breathing hard, but slowly regaining some control. “What are you going to do with the deer?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Maybe Joy Juno could tell me who on the island might need the meat. Of all the people I’d met so far on Maquoit, she alone inspired trust in me. I certainly didn’t have confidence in Radcliffe, who kept finding inventive ways to demonstrate that he was the creature of Harmon Reed.
Ariel rubbed her tear ducts, nose, and the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “You shot it before I even knew what you were going to do.”
“He was suffering. There was no point in waiting.”
“That was considerate of you not to warn me. I’m not being facetious. I genuinely appreciate it.” Even in extreme distress, Ariel Evans remained one of the more perceptive people I’d met in a long time. “I’m not really crying over the deer.”
“I know that.”
For the first time since we’d met, since we’d started together on this drive, I felt her full attention. She was studying me with newfound and genuine interest. “I was wrong about you. You’re not a phony.”
20
A gray shroud hung heavily over Gull Cottage. The windows were dark and hollow. The crime-scene tape sagged under the weight of accumulated water drops. I stopped the mangled truck.
Ariel said in a churchly whisper, “It looks nothing like it did on the website. And yet it looks exactly the way I imagined, if that makes any sense.”
I made a vague noise that suggested that I understood. I was eager to get her inside and settled down so we could begin our formal interview. Every few seconds a new question would come pinballing through my brain.
When I opened my door, I could smell the sea and hear the foghorn moaning at Beacon Head. I noticed that Ariel avoided looking at the dead deer as she stepped clear of the vehicle. I grabbed her duffel and my rucksack and pulled them across the truck bed.
“I want to see where she was killed first,” Ariel said.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
When she turned to me, color was again in her cheeks and the hardness had returned to her eyes. “Men have been telling women what’s in our best interests since time immemorial. You don’t get to do that to me even if you are some kind of cop.”
She ducked under the yellow tape, following the wet path around the house as if she’d visited the place before and knew exactly where to go. I supposed it wasn’t much of a mystery. The footprints pointed the way.
Miranda’s laundry and laundry bask
et were gone, and of course her underwear had been removed from the line. All that remained was a lone clothespin. But Ariel’s gaze was fixed on the flattened, glistening grass. The night’s rain had washed away most of the blood, but the indentation where her sister’s body had fallen was still visible. It may have been a trick of the eye, but the bent blades appeared darker than the rest of the yard.
“So the hunter who shot her was trespassing,” Ariel said with more composure and detachment than I could have managed.
“Maine has something called permissive trespass. It means anyone can access any piece of land that isn’t posted.”
“That’s ridiculous! What kind of backward, cracker-ass state is this?”
I said nothing.
Next she wanted to see the inside of the house: every room of it.
The door swung open easily. The air inside the darkened living room smelled of lemony dusting spray. I flicked on the light to find the cottage transformed.
After we’d finished processing the crime scene, Jenny Pillsbury must have returned to pick up the wineglasses and attend to the general mess. I felt a lump in my throat that I was unable to swallow. I hadn’t told her not to disturb the dead woman’s possessions; it had never even occurred to me to issue instructions that should have been self-evident.
“The rental agent must have cleaned the place.”
“Was she planning on renting it while my sister’s body was still warm?”
Once again I wished that someone had told me sooner that Jenny’s husband had been Miranda’s lover. In law enforcement jargon that was what was known as a big fucking deal. It was difficult not to read her rush to clean the cottage as an attempt at erasing evidence, even if it wasn’t. I remembered my last sight of Pillsbury staring in wide-eyed horror as Ariel came striding down the ramp. What had she been thinking in that moment? That her deceased rival had returned from the grave?
“There’s something I want to show you.” I gestured at the adjoining room.
Fortunately, Jenny Pillsbury had left Miranda’s sketches tacked to the corkboard in the parlor.
Ariel paused, openmouthed, before a drawing of Stormalong’s notorious hermit. “This is him? This is Blake Markman? How is this possible?”
“Your sister rowed a skiff across the channel to his island. The current is really strong. It took a lot of guts.”
“Miranda was fearless. There’s no denying that.” Ariel ran her thin fingers over the sketch of the hermit the way a blind person might examine a stranger’s face. “I have pictures of Markman from Hollywood, when he was younger. Pictures of him dressed in Armani with his supermodel wife on the red carpet. And then later when Andrea’s family was suing him. The newspapers took photographs of him entering and exiting the courthouse.”
“What did Markman do exactly?”
“There were rumors his wife was cheating on him with a famous actor. I’ve narrowed the list down to a few candidates. The night of the fire, Blake and Andrea had a big, public fight at a restaurant in Santa Monica. Later their Malibu beach house burned down. Blake escaped and was burned supposedly trying to save Andrea, who had passed out inside. The tox scan found a megadose of Halcion in her system, but she had no prescription for it. The cops figured Blake drugged her before he stoked his fireplace and the chimney got white-hot, starting the blaze. But they couldn’t prove it was murder.”
“What do you think?” I couldn’t help asking.
“If he didn’t murder her, why did he settle a wrongful-death civil suit with his in-laws? His lawyers advised against it. They were positive he would win. I think guilt got the better of him. I think Blake Markman is a case study in self-torture. I mean, look at his face. Twenty years later, you can still see his anguish.”
I had noticed the same thing.
“Guilty or not,” Ariel continued, “Miranda really connected with him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Can’t you see the feeling here? My sister was talented, but she wasn’t the kind of artist who could paint a stranger’s portrait and capture his essence. There always needed to be a connection. This feels so intimate.”
“So you think—?”
“That they had a sexual relationship? I’m not saying that. But who knows? Miranda always had a thing for older men. That artist she used to live with in North Carolina was twelve years older than she was. And Markman is still handsome if you’re into Old Testament prophets. Have you spoken with him?”
“Not yet.”
Her look was accusatory. “My sister dies mysteriously, and there are pictures of this odd recluse all over the house. You don’t think talking to the guy should be high on your priority list?”
“I’ve been sidetracked this morning by your arrival. I had assumed you were dead.”
“That’s an insulting reply.”
I tried not to sigh. “Yes, I am planning on talking with Blake Markman. But my first order of business is learning everything I can about what your sister was doing here. And interviewing you is the logical place to start. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ariel didn’t respond. She made a circuit around the room, ending up eventually at her sister’s wooden art box.
“When this is all over, I’d like to have these drawings.”
“As next of kin, you should have them. You should have everything.”
“I want to see her bedroom now. I want to look through her things. After that, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
* * *
She sat on the neatly made bed with Miranda’s two Coach bags open beside her.
“Did you do an inventory?” she asked, stroking a teal cashmere sweater. “Are you sure ‘the maid’ didn’t help herself to my sister’s Versace scarves?”
“We know what was here when we searched the place yesterday.”
“But you don’t know if the person who killed her removed something from the house before you arrived?”
“There’s no way for us to know that.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t box up all her stuff as evidence. It seems weird, your leaving things here.”
“My evidence team took whatever seemed important. Packing up the rest—I’ve never had to do that before. But I’m sure the state police have a protocol they follow in situations where someone dies alone on vacation.”
She folded her hands in her lap and seemed to will herself into calmness. She spent a long time looking me in the face. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“Is that young for someone in your job?”
“Youngish, but not unheard of.”
“You’re new at it though,” she pronounced.
There seemed no point in dissembling when she could find out with a few clicks of her computer. “I was promoted to the investigator position this summer.”
“How many hunting accidents have you worked?”
“We prefer the term hunting incidents.”
“Because accident suggests no one was at fault. It’s the reason why the police now use the term car crash.”
“I have worked many hunting homicides in my career. But this is the first investigation where I’m the primary on the case.”
She lifted her chin. “That’s reassuring.”
“You asked, and I thought you deserved an honest answer.”
“Thank you for your candor.” She zipped up the two bags and slid off the bed. “All right. I’m ready to tell you the story of my sister’s life. Wait for me downstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.”
21
I needed to remember that Ariel Evans wasn’t just a grieving sister. She was an investigative journalist with years of crime reporting on her résumé. If I wasn’t careful, she would use her knowledge of police procedure on me like jujitsu.
Ariel came down the stairs. She’d changed out of her quilted vest and put on her sister’s cashmere sweater. The teal color flattered her eyes. She’d also rung out her damp hair. It was longer than I had i
nitially thought, with the same honey-gold waves as Miranda had.
“What are you going to do with me now that I’m alive?” she said.
I hesitated.
She smiled. “It’s a line from an old movie.”
“I don’t watch a lot of movies, remember?.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, then.” On her way into the kitchen she said, “Is the water drinkable?”
“I wouldn’t drink it.”
I heard the refrigerator door rattle open, bottles jostling in the door. “Never mind.”
She returned to the living room a minute later with a mostly full bottle of white wine and a thin-stemmed glass.
“I don’t suppose you want some of this.” She sat down on the couch across the table from me. “I’m just teasing you. I know you’re not allowed. Too bad, though. It’s Domaine Serene. Miranda always had great taste in wine. Her drinking problem hadn’t progressed to the point that she would drink whatever got her buzzed.”
Ariel pulled the cork loose by expertly pinching it between her knuckles and splashed the greenish wine into her glass. She took a long sip.
I had already prepared my iPhone to start recording. As I did so, she said, “That reminds me.”
From the pocket of her pants, she removed her own iPhone. She switched it on, found the voice-recording function, and hit start. We sat there with our smartphone cameras pointed at each other.
“Are you worried I’m going to misrepresent what you say here?”
“Let’s just say I’m just covering my bases. Besides, I’m a journalist. I might need a record of this conversation.”
I ignored the jab and directed my voice to the two recording devices, “It is nine fifty-nine a.m. on November fourth. This is Warden Investigator Michael Bowditch, and I am conducting this interview at Gull Cottage on Beacon Road on Maquoit Island. Will you state your name?”
Ariel complied.
“And will you spell your name?”
Ariel rolled her eyes elaborately—and then complied.
